Every Generation
by Gemini Star01
Summary: Sequel to Grey Skies Over London. They're home now, but things are not as they should be: Arthur is still delusional, Alfred is still a prisoner, and Matthew is at the end of his rope. Desperate people resort do desperate meassures...
1. Beginning

So. This is a sequel to my one-shot _Grey Skies Over London_ – it's set in the same alternate history, so if you didn't read that one, you probably won't understand what's going on here. This started off as a one shot but quickly grew out of my control. Expect three chapters and an epilogue. I hope you all enjoy.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia, and I'm pretty sure it's impossible to own any history but your own personal records. I'm just having fun. Sort've.

**Every Generation**

**Part One: Beginning**

The port-town was bitter cold at this time of year, as even its salty currents could not defend against the icy winds that buffeted the vast northern lands. Few people braved the frozen streets after dark, and those few who did moved only with great purpose, their bodies buried in coats and their eyes locked on their own feet.

Matthew used this to his advantage, hurrying unseen through the snow-covered streets with his hat pulled down and his coat turned up. He paused on the doorstep of a dockside tavern, glanced about like a nervous rabbit, and slipped inside.

A roaring fire and a dozen cheerful conversations waited within, a stark contrast to the dark, barren emptiness outside. Matthew shed his snow-laden coat and hat, depositing them on a waiting peg and allowing himself a small, satisfied sigh. His violet eyes scanned the packed room until he finally found his target – an unusually quite figure sitting alone, with a red feather protruding from the brim of his hat.

He'd barely reached the table before his contact stood, smiled and embraced him warmly. "_Mathieu._ It's so wonderful to see you."

"And you, Francis." Matthew returned his former colonizer's hug. "It's been too long."

"_Oui._ Come now, sit, you are practically frozen. We must get you warmed up."

"I can't stay long," Matthew murmured, though he sat anyway. "He might get suspicious if I'm gone for too long."

"_Angleterre?"_

"Who else?"

Francis conceded the point with a nod, sipping his mug of tea. Matthew wished wistfully for a cup of coffee, but most places in the colonies didn't carry the stuff anymore, afraid they might get caught under the sedition act that banned coffee shops. A waitress came by, but they waved her off and waited until she was far gone before they began to speak again.

"How long have you boys been home?"

"Six months"

"And he is still with you?"

"He's going home next week. He'd stay longer if he could – it's only because the King finally summoned him back himself."

"So the two of you will be on your own."

Matthew hummed noncommittally and chewed at the nail of his pinky finger. Francis reached across the table to coax the digit away from his mouth, taking Matthew's hand between both of his own. "This distresses you?"

"Well, no…"

"_Mon cher_, you would not have called for me if there was not something that concerned you." Matthew sighed, squeezing Francis's hand. The Frenchman offered a soft, understanding smile. "Your concern, it is for Alfred?"

The boy closed his eyes. "Yeah."

"You don't believe that you can care for him?"

"I shouldn't _have_ to care for him," Matthew hissed. "He's Alfred, he's never needed anyone to care for him."

"Not even England?"

"Especially not England."

Matthew bit his lip. His hands trembled and he held onto Francis like a lifeline in a storm. Francis soothed his former charge as best he could. "Breathe, Mathieu, breathe."

"I just don't know what I'm supposed to do!" Matthew choked, muffling a dying, dry sob. "I'm trying, Francis, I'm really trying, but Al is so broken and he never acts like himself anymore and Arthur …it's like he can't even see!"

Francis clicked his tongue, massaging the hand he held. "He always was such a foolish boy."

"Alfred?"

"_Non._ Angleterre."

Matthew blinked and, though his eyes were moist, no tears fell. "England?"

"_Oui_," Francis sighed, setting their hands on the table. "As uncouth as he can be, his heart is quite tendered beneath its shields. He becomes easily lost in his passions. They blind him to what is real and, when that reality asserts itself, he will fight to return to his happy dreams."

Matthew turned the information over in his head and bit his lip again. "That makes sense I guess, but…"

"But it excuses nothing," Francis supplied with a nod. "His actions now, they will do no one good, and America least of all."

"I'm scared," Matthew admitted. "For Al. If something doesn't change soon…Arthur's smothering him, Francis. He'll die like this."

"Then the question is simple: what will you do about it?"

Matthew fell silent and focused on a knothole in the table. Behind his violet irises, the gears of his mind were turning, working through all the possibilities and choosing his words very carefully. "I don't know yet," he admitted, "but I have an idea and I think…I think I'm going to need your help, Papa."

Francis smiled and patted his hand. "Whatever you need, _mon cher, _I am here for you. All you need do is ask."

**( - )**

"Ah, Matthew, you're home."

Matthew smiled sheepishly, shaking the snow from his hat and setting his heavy grocery sack on the foyer floor. "Sorry I'm so late. The usual shop closed early for the storm."

"Nonsense, lad! I understand perfectly." Arthur chuckled and adjusted his cuffs. "I see you got what we needed in spite of it all. Are you sure you don't want some help preparing it all?"

"Yes!" Matthew squeaked, and hurriedly cleared his throat. "Yes, yes, I'm quite sure, Arthur, thank you. I'm fine, I like doing it. Really."

Arthur beamed and patted Matthew's shoulder. "You're a good lad, you are. I have told you how thankful I am for that, haven't I?"

Matthew forced a smile. "Quite often."

He shed his coat and made his way to the kitchen, but stopped just within the door. Alfred sat by the window in a dining room chair, the homemade quilt in his lap forming a swing for Flopsy. Alfred's eyes were on the window, watching the snow as it began to shift to a dreary sleet. He was wearing a new suit.

"I hope you don't mind," Arthur said from the door with the decency to look a bit ashamed. "I have a lot of paperwork to finish, and I thought he might be lonely."

"It's fine." Matthew let the groceries settle on the counter and reached for his brother. "Hey, Al."

Alfred started. His eyes were wide when he first spun around, but the gaze quickly dissolved into a shy, almost fearful smile. "Hi Mattie."

Matthew struggled to keep the bile in his stomach. He swallowed and knelt to adjust the blanket. "Are you warm enough? I know you don't like the cold."

"'M fine," Alfred muttered, holding Flopsy close.

Matthew's cheeks ached. "That's good."

Arthur smiled and retreated to his study, content that his charges were well-inclined together. Matthew held his breath until he heard the heavy study door close. Then he sighed and took his brother's hands. "Are you sure you're okay, Al?"

Alfred hesitated. It always took him a while to adjust between letting Arthur hear what he wanted and giving Matthew the truth. He shook his head.

"Too cold?" Matthew ventured, rubbing the hands he held. "You can move closer to the fire if you like."

Again, Alfred shook his head.

"Bored, then? I can get you something to read. I still have a few of the old pamphlets, the ones you always liked."

Another shake. Matthew turned his head. "Hungry?"

Shake.

"Then what?"

Alfred leaned forward until his forehead rested on his brother's shoulder. HE held Matthew's hand and, for a moment, sounded almost sane. "I just want to go home."

Matthew bit his lip. Alfred's home – the house in sunny Virginia where he grew up and the little farm he'd maintained with his own hands – has been ransacked during the southern colony's period of martial law. All but a few trinkets – childhood toys, portraits and albums that would be worthless to anyone else – were stolen, the house itself all but ruined and the fields scarred from battle. Arthur had abandoned the property long ago and proclaimed that they would never go back.

"I'm sorry, Al," Matthew said, hugging his brother. "But it'll be okay, you'll see. Arthur's going home soon, and then it'll be just the two of us, like it used to. Remember?"

Alfred smiled. "Yeah, I remember."

"It'll be better then," Matthew continued, and squeezed his brother's shoulders. "I'll make it better. I promise."

Alfred nuzzled him like a rabbit and, when he pulled away, his expression was thankful. Matthew matted his arm warmly and stood. "Better get dinner started. Once order of French cuisine coming up."

Alfred chuckled, snuggled under his blanket and leaned back in his chair. As Matthew returned to the groceries, his blue eyes wandered to the window. Once again, it was beginning to snow.

**( - )**

Matthew woke that night to muffled screams, which soaked through the thin ceiling like water from an overturned basin. Echoing thumps of wood-against-wood and flesh-against-wood accompanied the howls like a horrible symphony from hell.

Matthew leapt from his bed, accidentally throwing Kumajiro to the floor, and raced to the attic stairs. His fingers fumbled with the ring of heavy keys – curse Arthur and his paranoid fears! – until he finally found the right one and threw open the door to Alfred's room.

To say that Alfred was having a nightmare would have been the understatement of the century. He tore at his writs with his own nails, soaked his pillow with tears and moaned helplessly through the dark night.

Matthew pounced, seized his brother's hands and forced them apart. "Alfred!" he shouted. "Alfred, wake up, please!"

Alfred jerked. Their foreheads collided with a crack and Matthew's head spun. He reeled back and Alfred scrambled away. When Matthew came to his senses, Alfred was pressed into the corner, his wide eyes dripping with tears.

Matthew sighed, let his hands fall and crawled to his brother's side. Alfred flinched away. "It's okay, Al. I'm not mad."

Alfred relaxed a fraction and allowed Matthew to touch him. "I'm sorry."

"It was an accident."

"I'm still sorry."

"I just said it was okay, didn't I?" Matthew soothed. "Now, are you all right?"

Alfred rubbed his forehead. "I'm fine."

"Not that. The dream."

Alfred let his hand fall and groped through the blankets until he found Flopsy. "I'm fine. Don't tell Arthur."

"I won't," Matthew promised. If Arthur knew that Alfred was still having nightmares of his failed Revolution and its bloody aftermath, he might extend his stay. Neither of them wanted that, not now.

Matthew crawled across the bed and nestled in alongside his brother so that their shadows were touching. Alfred hesitated a moment before leaning his head on Matthew's shoulder, then suddenly they were children again, hiding from a storm and their human caretakers beneath hand-stitched quilts in the secret nooks of their world.

Matthew shifted, wrapped an arm around Alfred and listened. There were not footsteps on the stairs, no movement from the lower floor, no sound of life beyond their own breathing. Arthur was no doubt still locked away in his thick-walled study on the first floor, blocking out the world with its heavy oaken doors and book-lined walls. If Matthew knew his guardian – and he knew him very well – he was asleep at his desk by now, blissfully unaware of his household's suffering, and they would not hear from him until morning.

Matthew's heart pounded in his chest and he licked his dry lips. "Hey, Al?"

"Mm?"

"Tell me about Jefferson."

Alfred stiffened. He tried to pull away, but Matthew's hold remained strong. A pained whimper slipped from Alfred's throat. "T-Tom?"

"Yeah." Matthew smiled, trying to put his brother at ease. "He wrote for you, didn't he? I never really got to hear about him."

Alfred bit his lip, rubbing Flopsy's left ear between his fingers. "You…You really want to hear about Tom?"

"I really do."

"B-But Arthur –"

"Arthur can't hear us up here. It'll be our little secret." Matthew squeezed his brother's shoulders. "So tell me. What did Jefferson write?"

Alfred stared at the door as though he expected Arthur to burst in at any moments; still, he began to speak. He recited, word for word, the beautiful Declaration that Jefferson penned for him. When he finished, he went right into the great author's passionate pleas for freedom, his fierce arguments against the British regime and refined support of the colonists' ill-fated efforts. With each line, each passionate word, Alfred's eyes grew brighter and his voice grew stronger, wrapping around them like the warm surf of a southern coast rising to high tide.

Matthew sat and listened and held his brother until the words dribbled away into gentle snores. He sat for a while after and listened to Alfred sleep, lingering on the ghost of the passionate cries for freedom, which fell upon his heart as the snow fell across his silent lands.

**( - )**

A week later, Matthew saw Arthur off at the port. His empire smiled, clapped him on the shoulder and announced once more how very proud he was, this time for everyone to hear. He left behind a shipment of new clothes, custom-ordered from his homeland, and a written list of instructions on the care and keeping of his housebound brother.

Matthew accepted both with a smile and a wave, and he stood on the dock until the great ship disappeared into the sea. He chose a few of the clothes to take home and sold the rest to a shop, where he made another detour, to the abandoned apartment in the back of the store.

He returned home hours later with a new bag of food and a bronze pendant hidden beneath his shirt. He left the food in the kitchen and went to find his brother. Alfred was in the sitting room on the second floor – he reacted to Matthew's presence like a nervous rabbit, hovering in the far corners and glancing to the window anxiously.

Matthew took his brother by the arm, sat him down and asked to hear about John Adams.

That became their routine, during those long months without their guardian. Alfred was not allowed out of the house, and there were British spies watching to make sure he obeyed that rule, so Matthew went out into the world for them both. He took many detours and spoke to many people in town, slowing building friendships and tapping into hidden networks throughout the continent. Then he would return home and ask his brother about the men he had known, the dreams they had shared and the visions that were never realized. Alfred never looked happier than when he relived those old memories. Just thinking of those times made Matthew's heart soar.

Arthur returned the next summer, and the next, and the Christmas in between, but after that the old rhythm of yearly visits and lengthy letters resumed. Alfred remained confined to the house and Matthew always saw their guardian off with a smile before attending to that secret business of his own.

The years went by slowly but surely. As the century changed, Matthew began to slip out of the house at night, to meet in barns and farmhouses under the cover of darkness. Alfred knew, of course, but he kept this brother's secret and Arthur was never the wiser. Matthew would always return with the rising sun, dirt-covered and world-weary, and he would sit at his brother's bedside until Alfred woke; then, he would ask again to hear of Franklin, Hancock, Adams, Lee or any one of a hundred others.

Then, one night in 1812, he didn't come home at all.

Alfred woke alone that day. The house was empty – not even Kumajiro could be found. There was fresh bread on the table along with dried meat and fruit and a small pitcher of milk on ice – enough to satisfy even his appetite. But the silence was oppressive, and soon he could not bare it. He retreated to his attic room and say by the window where he could see the road.

He stayed there for hours, until the sky turned red and the sun was swallowed by the horizon. But his brother never came.

**( - )**

"Al. Alfred, wake up!"

Alfred jerked awake and nearly fell from his stool. Matthew caught him at the last moment and set him on his feet with a sigh. "Easy, Al, easy. Don't hurt yourself."

Alfred gasped. His bottom lip quivered. "M-Mattie."

Mathew smiled a guilty little smile. "Yeah, it's me."

"Where have you _been?_"

"I'll explain later, I promise." Matthew's tone and expression were sincere. He was bathed in the shimmering light of the full moon, and it was only then that Alfred realized how strangely he was dressed. He wore a long, heavy tan coat lined with white fur and red thread that was unmistakably tailored for the black slacks and boots beneath. There was a russet patch sewn onto the left breast, in the shape of a maple leaf with a while star set in its center.

Something in Alfred's chest leapt with fear. "Mattie…what are you wearing?"

"I _promise_ I'll explain," Matthew soothed, cupping his brother's cheek. "But we don't have time now. We need to pack."

"Pack?" Alfred parroted. He clutched Flopsy to his chest and watched his brother move around the room. "Why pack?"

"We're leaving, Al. Both of us. Tonight."

From Matthew's heel, Kumajiro made a noise halfway between a mewl and a growl. Alfred shrank back. "L-Leaving?"

"Yeah," Matthew was practically buzzing with excitement, stuffing warm clothes into a rucksack along with a set of wooden soldiers and a few other trinkets that Alfred held dear. "I know it's been a while since you went out. Hell, it's been years, and it might be a bit scary at first, but you shouldn't be locked up like this anymore. So we're leaving."

"…To get Arthur?"

Matthew tied up the sack and pushed it into his brother's arms. "No, Al. We'll never have to deal with Arthur again."

Alfred backed away at that, the back of his legs bumping against his bed. He glanced about in fear and nibbled his lip. "Y-You shouldn't say things like that, Mattie. Arthur's gonna –"

"Arthur's not here!"

Alfred dropped the bag and fell onto the bed, clutching Flopsy to his chest. He'd never heard Matthew raise his voice before, not in all their lives. Matthew seemed equally shocked at his own actions, cupping a hand to his own throat before reaching for his brother hesitantly. "Oh, Alfred, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to yell at you."

He came to the bed, and Alfred didn't try to move away. They were quiet as Matthew helped him slip the rucksack over his shoulders, hands lingering even once the strap was stable.

"Alfred," Matthew finally ventured again. "Before, when you left the first time, you asked me to come with you. Do you remember? You probably do. I wouldn't go. I was too scared, too comfortable. I let you go out there alone and…"

_And you lost._

Those last horrible words were unspoken, but the truth hung over them like a stifling veil. Matthew squeezed Alfred's shoulder and took a deep breath to empower his voice once more. "I won't make that mistake again. I promise."

Alfred stared at his brother, confusion slowly giving way to a new-found admiration. When Matthew finally met his eye once more, he smiled. His brother smiled back. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah."

"Good." Matthew pointed out the window to the road, where a chestnut brown horse was tethered to the fence. "I've got old Bess loaded up. You wait with her, okay? I'll be right there."

Alfred turned his head to the side. "But why?"

"Don't worry. I've just got one last thing to take care of before we go…"

**( - )**

The 'boys' were not allowed in Arthur's study, especially not while Arthur was away. The last thing that he always did before he set off for the dock was lock the door and cover it with a wax seal, in which he inscribed a set of magic runes.

Matthew did not really believe in magic – at least, not Arthur's magic – but he knew that the runes were only an alarm. Breaking the seal would alert Arthur that something was happening in his colonies.

Exactly as Matthew wanted.

He brought the butt of his musket down hard, shattering the old knob on impact. A solid kick was all it took to destroy the remaining bonds, and the door swung open.

The room was filled with books, ancient tomes and new releases alike filling the towering shelves. They lined all the walls except the one opposite the door, which was made of windows. A set of wine-red curtains were pulled tight across the glass now, so only the pale light of Matthew's candle illuminated the grand oaken desk that rested in the center of the room.

Matthew lifted the rug with his foot. There was a circle of white paint hidden beneath, the remnants of chalk runes scribbled along the edge. Matthew's stomach squirmed a bit with disgust. He let the rug fall, set the candle on the desk and moved behind it, to the liquor cabinet.

It was locked as well, but the musket once again did away with that. It was almost full. Matthew seized a bottle in each hand, pulled off their tops and dumped the contents onto the floor, then grasped two more and did it again, moving away to soak a new part of the carpet. Two by two, he emptied the liquor across every surface of the room, then tore down the bookcases and anointed their snatched up the candle and emptied the last bottle – a fine French bourbon – over the desk.

He paused by the door and observed his handiwork. The ruined room, Arthur's tarnished glory, hung heavy with the fumes of his greatest vice. It seemed fitting, in its own way. Matthew smiled at the thought.

He let the candle fall.

By the time he reached the front door, with the musket in one hand and a rucksack of his own in the other, the study was ablaze. As the flames burst through the window panes, old Bess reared back with a fearful whinny. Alfred, standing by the fence as he promised, was staring in horror.

"Mattie," he gasped. "What have you done, Mattie?"

"What I had to," Matthew said without regret. He pulled Bess down by her reigns, soothed her and swung his bag onto her back with their other cargo. "Come on, Al. We have to go."

Alfred hesitated, but obeyed as Matthew climbed into the saddle. The sound of their house's beams breaking under the assault of the flames made Alfred wince, and gripped Matthew's wait with one arm.

Matthew never looked back or spoke. He steered Bess onto the road and urged her into a gallop. As the night consumed them, he felt the impact of a dozen blows, across his lands and those that waited to the south. His comrades in the militia had done their parts, making their moves in the same night, just as they planned. In a single night of fire and surprise, a new revolution had begun.

_**TBC…**_

**Random Historical Fact and Author's Note:** In 1700, coffee houses were considered hotbeds of revolution, so much so that King Charles II of England banned them. The ban lasted a grand total of 11 days. With all the hubbub made over the tea tax and the fact that the American Revolution/Rebellion did initially spread through meeting houses such a coffee shops, I wouldn't have put it past the British to instigate such a ban again in an attempt to keep the colonies under control.

Also, the title of this piece comes from a Thomas Jefferson quote – "Every generation needs a new revolution." I hope you can see why.


	2. Middle

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia, and I'm pretty sure it's impossible to own any history but your own personal records. I'm just having fun. Sort've.

**Every Generation**

**Part 2: Middle**

"Give. Him. Back."

Matthew blinked. It had been eight long months since last he'd seen his guardian – _former_ guardian – face-to-face, most of the intervening time taken up with battle. Arthur looked surprisingly small in his military finery, a far cry from his intimidating pirate heyday. He trembled with red-face rage on the opposite side of the negotiation table and barely allowed the tent flap to close in his wake before he started into his demands. The royal general who accompanied him placed a hand on his empire's shoulder, trying in vain to reign in the fiery temper.

On Matthew's side, his own general – a proud, old warrior hardened by the long was and America's suppression – sat straight-backed in his chair. He proudly wore an officer's uniform from the same cut as his young nation, bearing his medals and rank designations like a shield against oppression. On Matthew's other side sat the representative of their reformed Parliament – that is, the Parliament of the New Colombian Alliance – and it was this relatively young man who spoke next. "If you would please take a seat, Mister Kirkland…"

"I will not take a goddamn seat!" Arthur snapped, and kicked the offered chair. "We're not here for a bloody tea party. Where the hell is Alfred?"

"In his tent," Matthew said in a soft tone. Arthur headed for the door, but Matthew continued before he could leave. "It looks exactly like the other 200 standard-issue tents in our camp, and if you set foot beyond this one, your diplomatic immunity here will be revoked."

Arthur stopped, turned and snarled. "How _dare_ you?"

"You a guest are in our territory, Mister Kirkland," reminded the Parliamentarian.

"_Your_ territory?" Arthur demanded, his voice rising into a near-shriek. "This is my land!"

"Wrong," said Matthew, looking up. "It's my land."

Arthur hissed. His shoulders sank as he came back to the table, his anger slipping away for a moment to reveal the weakness below. "Oh, Matthew," he murmured. "What have they done to you?"

"They haven't done anything." Matthew drew himself up, proud in his uniform and disgusted by the too-familiar tone of denial in the elder nation's voice. "I'm here because I want to be. Alfred is the same."

The rage returned and Arthur slammed his palms against the table. "Bullshit! I know you're holding him here! You kidnapped him!"

"Arthur –"

"I did no such thing!" Matthew snapped, standing in a moment of anger and cutting off the British general. His violet eyes blazed like the fiery aurora that burned in the skies of his most northern regions. "I brought him out of that house – the house _you_ locked him in, like some kind of animal! – and told him he could go wherever he liked. He chose to stay with me."

Arthur snarled. "I never pinned you for a liar, boy."

"And I never pinned _you_ for a despot."

"Enough," Canada's general intoned, and his rich voice instantly brought the argument of nations to an end. Matthew sank into his chair, blushing all the way up to his hairline, but the old man's eyes twinkled with pride when their gazes met. When the general looked to England, however, his expression became stern. "We have no prisoners here, nor are we currently holding captives in any of our camps. It is useless to continue such pointless discussions, so I suggest we return to the actual topic at hand."

Arthur's scowl deepened but, at his leader's request, he sat in silence. The Colombian delegate cleared his throat, steering the conversation back on-track. "Thank you, General. Now, might we be able to reach an agreement?"

"What are your demands?" snapped the impatient British leader.

"I believe you've already received our _terms_," said the representative, pushing a copy of the New Colombian Alliance Declaration of Independence across the table. "If you've forgotten, they are stated very clearly here."

"And you think you can get away with this?" the Brit laughed. "Where the last so-called Americans failed?"

Matthew tuned them out as the debate began to rage. There would no compromise, he knew. The British and their leaders did not understand, because Arthur, England, did not understand. This was not a Canadian rebellion, it was a unification – and a liberation.

**( - )**

When the negotiations finally dissolved, as they were destined to, Matthew left without acknowledging Arthur's attempts to get his attention. The older nation tried to follow after, but was held at bay by militia guards. His curses followed the former colony into the heart of the camp. Matthew did not even glance back.

He weaved between the rows of mismatched tents until he reached the one he shared with his brother. He knelt and peered inside. Alfred stared back at him from the shadows, as jittery as a rabbit.

"Hey Al," Matthew called with a soft smile. "They're gone now. Do you want to come out?"

"No."

"Okay."

Matthew slipped inside and let the flap fall shut behind him. The tent was a bit stuffy in these early spring months, but the twins paid it little mind as Matthew settled in. Alfred curled into his brother's side. "Is he gone?"

"Arthur? Yeah, he's gone."

Alfred pouted over Flopsy's head. "He'll be back."

"Probably," Matthew agreed. Kumajiro lumped from the corner and plopped into his owner's lap, grumbling for food. Matthew rubbed his ear. "When he does, do you want to see hi?"

"No." 

"All right then."

They sat quietly for a while, listening to the bustling noise of the camp beyond their trap barrier. Matthew scratched Kumajiro's ear with one hand and held Alfred's fingers with the other. He nuzzled his brother's hair and gave a soft sigh. "You should have seen the Commander, Al. He was really something. Even Arthur couldn't talk back to him."

Alfred smiled at that. "He's a good guy."

"He is." Matthew closed his eyes and rested his head against his brother's. "Hey, Al…Tell me about your General?"

Alfred's breath hitched in his throat.

"You don't have to," Matthew assured hurriedly. Alfred relaxed and nuzzled his brother's shoulder.

Matthew sighed. Of all America's heroes and martyrs, only his General – his Father – remained a mystery to his curious brother, though not for lack of trying. The only time they'd pushed the issue had left Alfred an inconsolable mess of tears who refused to move from his bunk or eat for three days. Matthew burned with curiosity, especially as the battles and days grew longer, but he could not, would not force things and risk undoing all of their hard work. Alfred was so much better now that he was out of his prison and among the people. He was not himself, but he was better, running and laughing nad playing sports with the man during downtime. Matthew could see his happy, shining brother there, beneath the tattered blue coat and meager form that trembled at every gunshot. He was so near…

"Hey, Mattie?"

Matthew shook himself and turned back to his brother. "Yeah, Al?"

Alfred squirmed, averted his eyes and rubbed Flopsy's ear between his fingers. "Y-You're gonna fight again, aren't you?"

"Well, yes."

Alfred clung to Matthew's arm, and Matthew winced, suddenly reminded of how very strong his brother could be. Alfred gazed up at him pleadingly. "Don't. Please, Mattie, don't go out there."

"We've been through this, Al," Matthew soothed, wincing as tried to pry his arm free. "I don't have a choice, Arthur will ruin us if I don't fight. You don't have to go out there, though, I know it scares you…"

"That's not it!"

Alfred's voice cracked, and Matthew suddenly realized that there were tears pooling in those blue eyes. He held onto Matthew stubbornly, licked his lips and managed to force out the hesitant words. "What if…what if you get caught, Mattie? What if you…"

_What if you loose?_

The unspoken words hung about them as heavily as morning fog. Matthew stopped trying to wriggle away. "That's not going to happen."

"But what if it does?" Alfred fell silent, but his frightened eyes said volumes more – 'He'll do to you what he did to me, I know he will, please don't make me watch that happen brother, please, please don't go…'

"It _won't_ happen," Matthew reassured again. "You can't think that way, you know you can't. If we don't believe, our people won't believe. You know that, right?"

Alfred gnawed his lip. "Y-Yeah."

"Wewill make it through this," Matthew continued, caressing his brother's cheek. "So just hang in there, okay? You're so strong Al, I know you are. You'll make it through to the end of this. That's how strong you are."

Alfred sniffed. "I'm not strong."

"You _are_." Matthew's throbbing arm was testament to that much. "You're more powerful than you think, Alfred. You're a hero."

Despite his tears, despite his fear, Alfred smiled.

**( - )**

The war was not an easy one.

Not that anyone expected it to be. After all, even with the combined force of all British America under one command, it was unheard of for any colony to resist its empire and expect to win. The sad state of the southern lands, whose spirit struggled on despite being half-smothered from decades of suppression, only reiterated this point.

As spring became summer, the Colombian militia lost in two crucial ports and was forced to retreat into the interior of the land. They continued to win small skirmishes along the length of the length of the continent, but the struggles continued well through the warm months, pushing the militia back until they could see the mountains with their bare eyes.

Summer began to bleed into fall. With each passing day, the anxious beast that gnawed on Matthew's gut grew larger. The green leaves had only begun to turn when France finally appeared, with Prussia of all people in tow.

"You do understand," Francis said, once the three nations were safely within the Commander's meeting tent, alone, "that my King has sent me here only to distract England from our quarrels elsewhere."

Matthew nodded in acknowledgement, frowning. "But that's not the only reason you're here, right?"

Francis beamed. "Of course not. I did promise you."

Matthew smiled. From behind Francis, Gilbert yawned like a lion and the sound echoed around the tent. "Blah, blah, blah. Fuck, Francis, ou act like splitting ol' Arthur's attention is a bad thing. All it's gonna do is make life easier for us."

"That is true," Francis said with a chuckle, sipping the bitter coffee his former colony had presented him. "The sun ma never set on the British Empire, but even he cannot hope to fight two wars at the same time."

Matthew chewed on the inside of his cheek. "So you really think we have a chance?"

"Oui. Though we shall have to see if history deals the cards in our favor." Francis peered at Matthew through the steam of his drink, bringing to mind that night at the portside pub and all the years the two had spent together. "There is something bothering you. Something besides the war."

Matthew stiffened. "I…"

"Frustrated, kiddo?" Prussia asked, leaning across the table with a lecherous smirk. "Bet'cha the old eyebrow pervert's got you pretty repressed. We've still got half an hour before my training drills start up, so Francis and I ought to be able to help you with that…"

Francis, in a move that would have seemed out-of-character were Matthew not the one involved, struck his white-haired friend across the back of his head. "Mon dieu, Gilbert, that is quite enough. If that's the kind of mood you are in, we will attend to such things at a better time. But _now –_ " he turned back to Matthew with a serious, concerned expression " – is about you, my dear. Something is causing you great concern, so what is it?"

Matthew sighed, stood and rubbed the back of his neck. "It's…It's nothing."

"Do not try to hide. There _is_ something bothering you." Francis's eyes widened. "Don't tell me that Alfred is –"

"Alfred's fine," Matthew assured. He began to pace. "He's getting better – you should see him, while you're here, you'll be amazed how much better he is. I'm not worried about him. I'm not worried about anything but the fighting, and yet…I can't shake this _feeling_."

Francis and Gilbert exchanged a look. Gilbert finally sat down. "What kind of 'feeilng'?"

"Just a feeling." Matthew bit the flesh of his thumb, staring into the far corner as he tried to align his thoughts. "I need to be here. I know I do. This is my fight, but I want to…I want to…"

Silence. Francis motioned for him to continued. Matthew paced to the back entrance, opened the tent and gazed upon the distant mountains.

"I want to go there," he admitted, voice, prickly with nerves. "I can't explain it, but this feel…It's like they're calling me. And I just don't –"

Gilbert burst out laughing. Matthew turned pink and let the tent flap fall. "What?"

"Oh, _man_. The newbie's first time is always the most hilarious thing."

The shade of Matthew's face darkened. His voice came as barely a squeak. "J-Just what do you mean by that?"

Francis chuckled, setting his coffee on the table and crossing to Matthew. He put his arm around his former colony's shoulders and steered him until their backs were turned to their ally.

"My dear Mattieu," he said with a shake of his graceful head. "Did I ever tell you of the way I met my dear Jeanne?"

Matthew blinked. Tales of the brave and beautiful Jeanne d'Arc were always among Francis's favorite bedtime stories, but he had never heard this one. He shook his head.

"It was a time of great turmoil for me, as you well know." Francis smiled wistfully down at his drink. "At that time too, Angleterre was the source of our troubles. There was little that my people or I could do to stand against him, and I admit that I had almost lost the spirit myself. Then, I heard the Call."

Gilbert saddled up to Matthew and swung his arm around the younger nation's shoulders. "Y'see, kiddo, when big change is going down in our lands, there's sometimes a couple of things that we gotta oversee ourselves. When we ain't where we need to be for that, we start getting that tingling feeling. My gramps and old Rome named it the Call, and the term stuck."

"It does not steer us wrong," Francis said with an agreeable nod. "I followed its summons to Chinon, where I was witness to my dear Jeanne's first true prediction, when her gift was first brought to the light. From that meeting came many struggles and many blessings, but my history would not have been the same had I not borne witness to that moment with my own eyes."

Matthew shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "What you're saying is, you think I need to go there – into the mountains. That something there's calling me?"

"Damn straight!" Gilbert laughed.

"But what about Alfred? He can't handle those mountains in his state, he hates the cold!"

Francis patted his former charge's hand. "You needn't worry. We shall watch over him while you are away."

"You're sure?"

"Oui." Francis's gaze grew soft. "With any luck, the care I offer him now will make up for what I did not do before."

Matthew's heart ached over their regretful expression. "That wasn't your fault. Your king –"

"The faults of my people and my ruler are mine to bear as well," Francis said with resolution, then he smiled. "You will come to understand that for yourself, in time. Now come, you must bid him farewell. It would not due for you to disappear without assuring him of your return."

Matthew nodded, settling Kumajiro into his rucksack and making sure he was comfortable before tying the bag closed. Abandoning their table and cups, the three nations stepped from their tent and into the camp. Gilbert broke away soon enough to berate a passing regimen for their atrocious marching order. Matthew winced in sympathy for his men – Prussians were hard taskmasters, it was known, but they would get the job done better than most.

They found Alfred sitting with a small knot of Georgians, far from their sunny home, chewing on a leg of chick fresh from the boiling oil that rested over their fire. When he spotted his brother, Alfred grinned. "Hey, Mattie! You want some chicken?"

Matthew was bemused. "That food is literally covered in grease, Al."

Alfred pouted. "But it's so good!"

"If you say so."

Francis chuckled, kneeling across from the young man to stir the oil thoughtfully. "This method of cooking can produce some tasty meals. I've found that potatoes, sliced into long strips, work especially well."

"Really?" Alfred studied his chicken leg intently. "Then maybe we should try that next…"

Matthew smiled. His brother was so earnest, contemplating his food with all the intensity of a surgeon. He slipped his arms around Alfred's shoulder and gave them a loving squeeze.

Alfred stopped eating and craned his head back. "Something wrong, Mattie?"

"No," Matthew assured. "It's just…I'm going to be away for a while."

"Away?" Alfred's voice jumped an octave as too-familiar fear took hold. "Where away? Why? How long?"

"I don't know," Matthew admitted. "But I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise."

Alfred's eyes were wide and clear, like summer skies. He held onto Matthew's arm with one hand, which left grease stains on the tan sleeve. "Do you have to?"

"Yeah. I think I do."

"…Okay."

He let go. Matthew pulled back, but made no move to wipe the grease away, not even as he pulled the rucksack on over his shoulders. Alfred's understanding was both a relief and unnerving.

Matthew ruffled his brother's hair, then nodded Francis a final farewell before heading for the edge of the camp. He was almost out of earshot when Alfred called after him again, "Mattie!"

Matthew stopped and called back. "Yeah, Al?"

"Be…Be safe!"

Matthew smiled and saluted his twin like a true solider. "You too. I'll be back soon."

Then he turned and headed into the mountains to answer their Call.

**( - )**

At the top of the mountain, Matthew met a man. In retrospect, he would realize how woefully inadequate a description that was, but the moment he first saw the stranger, it was all he could register. It took him almost five minutes to realize that no normal man could have existed in such a hostile, airless place.

He was familiar somehow, this stranger. He sat tall and pale, wrapped in clothes that were mostly colorless, right up to the white scarf around his neck. When Matthew arrived, he was sitting on a rock, staring at the miles of snow-covered peaks that stretched out below them. Eventually, he glanced back with soft violent eyes.

"A lovely view, da?"

"Da. Um, I mean…yeah."

Matthew paused a few feet away. The stranger clicked his tongue. "You should not hover in such a way, neighbor. If you wish the world to take you more seriously, you must be much more assertive. Come here and sit with me."

He cleared the snow from a place beside him. A moment later, Matthew sat. A loud part of his rational mind, the part long warned against invading nations and thieving native tribes, urged him to run. His instinct made him stay.

The stranger reached into his long coat and drew out a metal flask. He took a long swig and offered it to Matthew. It smelled horrid. Matthew waved it away. "No, thank you."

"Suit yourself."

He took another swig and turned his violent eyes to the mountains once more. For a long time after, the only sound between them was the wind howling through the rocks.

The stranger spoke again. "Are you not cold?"

Matthew shrugged. "No."

"That coat of yours is not particularly thick."

"It's fine." Matthew shifted in his furs, running his finger along the thread of his star-and-maple patch. "Besides, I'm used to the cold."

"Must be more than used, to come up here," the stranger noted, sipping his drink again. He swirled the burning liquid in its metal canister and smiled his own strange sort of appreciation. "I've been curious, you know, about your war."

Matthew nearly choked on his own air. His companion only chuckled. "It has not been easy on you, I hear. Your opponent, Britannia, wields much power."

Matthew bit his lip. "That is true."

"Are you to wave then, now that you find your goal a difficult one to reach?"

"No."

The word burst from Matthew's lips before he could think about it, but only because his mind was filled with the image of Alfred's broken face as the citizens he cared for, the revolutionaries he loved, were destroyed, and with them, his spirit. That could not happen again. Matthew would not allow it.

His odd visitor seemed amused by this. "You are most confident. You have never considered abandoning your cause?"

"Never." For that would mean abandoning the one part of his family that was still familiar, even if it lay broken and buried beneath tarnished dreams…

"And you will continue the fight until the very end, even if that means destruction before surrender?"

No hesitation. "Yes."

The wind howled once more, sweeping snow into the air and against their backs like a wave from the sea. The stranger laughed and spoke, it seemed, to the very wind itself. "Yes, I agree. His dedication is impressive. This is a conflict most befitting your great talents."

Matthew ducked his head, struggling to hear against the wind. His heart pounded against his ribs. "What the hell are you talking about? What does that mean?"

"It means that we choose to assist you, _Canada_."

The wind died as suddenly as it had come, dropping a dollop of snow down Matthew's collar. The stranger stood, dusted off his coat and turned to the younger nation with a smile.

"For this war, I shall give you my greatest General," he said, though his high voice and baby face did not match the serious words. "He can and will be your most valuable ally, if you know how to properly use his skills."

Matthew gulped. Behind the stranger, by the bare sunlight that struggled to this high and shrouded place, he almost imagined he could see an intangible figure who sparkled like the snow beneath their feet, as terrible as a blizzard and as treacherous as a frozen lake.

"Come," said the solid stranger, offering his hand. "I shall teach you."

Matthew hesitated. He thought of his general and militia, of Gilbert and Francis, of Alfred.

Without another thought, he took the offered hand.

_**TBC…**_


	3. End

Epilogue is written, I just have to type it, I promise. Don't kill me just yet.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia, and I'm pretty sure it's impossible to own any history but your own personal records. I'm just having fun. Sort've.

**Every Generation**

**Part 3: End**

The field was empty and peaceful. You would never suspect it had been the site of a recent battle. The bodies were long gone, claimed by their respective sides, and most of the major scars had been washed away by the morning's rain.

Alfred picked his way through the long grass, searching for metal trinkets, shells and musket balls that might have been uncovered by the rain. Any spare bit of metal could be used for weapons repair and lead would help restore their dwindling ammunition supply. Normally, this duty would go to one of a dozen low-ranking privates who weren't on active duty that moment – but Alfred had asked for the chore, and Francis acquiesced.

It wasn't easy, but it was less of a trial than battle – and Alfred knew he couldn't handle battle. Every crackling gunshot and powder flash made his heart seize and his breath catch. He hated the helpless feeling that came while he hid in his tent and his heart ached when he thought of the all the men who died. This small chore was the least he could do for them.

He knelt among the grass and combed the moist earth with his fingers. He came up with three musket balls and three that were split in half. They rolled across his palm like pearls and Alfred beamed. It was a good start. Francis would be pleased and Mattie would too, when he came back.

As he slipped the pieces into his pocket, a voice called his name. "Alfred?"

Alfred froze.

"It is you. Thank god."

Arthur jogged his way from the British side of the field, panting and grinning from ear to ear. They were alone. Alfred couldn't move.

"I knew I'd find you someday," Arthur gasped, sliding on the mud as he came to a stop. His boots bent the long grass in his wake, and he smiled nostalgically. "It would be this sort of place, wouldn't it? So appropriate."

He stepped forward. Alfred jumped back. Arthur stopped, hesitated and smiled with a bit more force. "It's all right, Alfred. It's just me. I'm here to take you home."

Alfred shook his head. He backed up another step and clutched his hand against his chest. "No…"

"Alfred."

"He said _non_, Angleterre."

Francis approached from the field's edge, a scabbard in hand. Far behind, Gilbert stood on the edge of the Colombian camp, brandishing his bayonet in the setting sun.

Arthur's face turned red, then purple. "No one asked you, blasted frog!"

"I do not need to be asked," Francis retorted. His gaze was more kind when it fell to Alfred. "Are you all right?"

"Fine…"

"Stop tormenting him," Arthur snapped. "It's obvious that he's terrified!"

Francis true himself up. "That is not because of me."

"Well, who else would it be?"

The question hung in the silence like an albatross about a doomed sailor's throat. A cold wind blew in from the mountains, billowing through the long glass with an icy touch. A horrid realization dawned across Arthur's face. "You think…it's me? That he's scared of me?"

Francis said nothing. Arthur looked to Alfred. Alfred swallowed and took another step back.

The red rushed back into Arthur's face. "Ridiculous!" he snapped, reaching for his former colony's arm. "Come Alfred, away from this nonsense. Let me take you home…"

"Over my dead body."

The voice traveled faster than its owner, but soon enough Matthew appeared over the crest of the nearest hill. He was accompanied by a harsh, cold wind that froze the bones and chilled even Arthur in all his layers of coats.

Arthur's hand withdrew of its own volition. As Matthew came down the hill, he glared at his former empire with a ferocity none had seen in him before. "You have thirty seconds to get back to your camp before I signal Gilbert and send half the militia after you."

"You're not serious," Arthur implored, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "For god's sake, boy, it's only me."

"I know who you are. Twenty seconds."

Arthur went rigid. He neither spoke nor moved. Matthew reached for the musket slung across his back. "Ten seconds. Nine…Eight…"

Arthur fled.

As though a spell were broken, the tension in the field evaporated. Francis's shoulders relaxed, Matthew lowered his hands and Alfred tackled his brother to the ground.

"Mattie!" he cheered as they rolled down the hill together. "You're back!"

Matthew winced – he'd landed on his musket, which was thankfully not loaded – but smiled nonetheless. "Hey Al. You sound like you're doing better."

Alfred pouted, resting his head against his brother's shoulder. "I guess. I missed you."

"I missed you, too. Let me up, okay?"

Alfred squeezed Matthew's waist one more time before he rolled to the side. Francis crossed to them with a chuckle, offering Matthew his hand. "So good to see you again, mon cher. You've had quite the long journey."

"How long has it been?"

"Almost a month."

Matthew winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize how much time…"

"There is no reason to apologize," Francis clicked his tongue and picked Alfred up as well, dusting some dried mud from the tail of his blue coat. "Mm, we must wash this later…but for now, tell us, where have you been and for what purpose were you called?"

"It's hard to explain," Matthew sighed, handing Francis his gun as they crossed into the Colombian camp. "But I need to speak to the General. I've got a new strategy for him."

"Strategy?" Francis echoed. He glanced to Alfred, who shook his head – even Matthew's own twin didn't know what he meant. "What sort of strategy?"

The icy wind seemed to have followed Matthew home blew through the camp, ratting tents and cooking pots throughout. Alfred shivered. Matthew looked to Francis and grinned.

"A strategy I learned from a neighbor," he said with a wild sort of smile. "For now, let's just say, we have some very powerful friends on our side…"

**( - )**

The Russian Strategy, as it was called, was simple but brilliant. As fall took hold and winter loomed, the Colombian army fell into retreat. Emboldened by their apparent weakness, the British followed close behind, and that became their downfall.

The American continent was a hundred times fierce, wilder and harsher than the British isle. Snow fell across the land in huge drifts, stirred by ferocious winds that roared like monsters and masked the natural world's wild beasts until it was too late. Canada's rugged fur trappers and mountain men were hardened and empowered by their homeland's ferocity – the trained British soldiers were simply no match.

Down the length of British America, orders were carried to put the land to work. On the border of Louisiana, an entire platoon of British footmen vanished into a murky swampy; the Georgian brigade they'd followed there merged without losing a single man. Woods became a place of fear for any redcoat, every snow drift a grave and every valley an ambush ready to happen.

By mid-winter, the British army was all but ravaged, and the Colombian general ordered a final strike. The militia closed in from all sides, surrounded the British leadership in the north. Trapped on the edge of the mountains, with Prussian guns at their backs and the French armada blocking escape by sea even if they reached the coast, it was only a matter of time.

Arthur fled the final struggle's chaos, dashing into an empty valley that lay under a thick blanket of snow. Matthew followed after, with his invisible ally at his side. General Winter roared in triumph as Arthur finally stumbled and fell.

Matthew paused while he still had the high ground and placed Arthur firmly in his sights. "It's over."

Arthurs snarled at him with undisguised hatred. His once-proud red coat now hung about him in tatters, soaked by snow and stained with gunpowder burns.

"It's over," Matthew repeated, taking a single step closer. "These people have rejected you, Arthur. This land has rejected you. And I've rejected you, too."

"Fine," Arthur snapped, like a bear trap closing on a curious rabbit. "Take your blasted independence, if you want it so much. See if you can actually stand this awful continent on your own. Just please…"

Here, Arthur's voice broke, dissolving into weak half-sobs. He lowered his head and clutched his gun with both trembling hands.

"Please give him back to me," he begged. "I can't lose him. I've tried so hard. Give him back, please, give him back…my boy…"

A flame of anger sparked in Matthew's heart. He growled, like Kumajiro. "You still don't get it."

Arthur glanced up, his hatred now tainted with confusion.

"Alfred's is not a child. He's not a prize to be won or a pet you can lock up to wait until for you to come home. He's his own person, his own nation." Matthew's hands and weapon trembled as he spoke, but unlike England, it was in fury, not fear. "Now he's free, the way he was always meant to be. And so am I."

Behind them, on the battle field, a canon fired into the air. It was accompanied by the cheers of a victorious army – _his_ victorious army, Matthew knew.

He lowered his weapon. Arthur sneered at him from the snow. "Not going to shoot me?"

"There's no point. You've already lost."

Matthew turned his back on the fallen empire and ascended the snowy incline once more. Alfred appeared at the top of the ridge, his blue standing out against Winter's grey and white. He seemed jittery, but joyous. He ran to meet his twin half-way.

From his place in the snow, Arthur's hatred boiled over.

"No," he whispered, though the boys could not hear. "This isn't the end. I won't let this be the end. I'm the goddamn British empire, and I. Never. Lose!"

He snatched up his gun in a fury and fired at Matthew's retreating back.

Matthew's world spun and time stood still.

He'd run to meet his brother, tossing his weapon to the side. He'd seen the excitement in Alfred's eyes, the fire, the joy. He'd heard the gunshot shatter the air.

Now he looked back the way he'd come. He saw England with his gun, a smear of powder and smoke staining the snow between them. Something heavy clung to his chest. He lowered his gaze.

Alfred's grip – the one he'd used to spin them and exchange their places – shuddered against Matthew's shoulders. His back was contorted with the shock and pain of the buckshot sprayed across it. His mouth was open, but made no sound. His eyes were wide. They rolled back until the blue was hidden. He fell.

Time returned with a vengeance. Matthew screamed, "Alfred!"

He grabbed for his twin, but he had no footing on the slick earth and was thus dragged down himself. Alfred sagged against him like so much de– no, no, he wouldn't think that! – like so much unnatural weight, and lay horribly still.

"Alfred, please, just hold on," Matthew begged. He shouted, "Francis! Gilbert, anyone!" and clutched his wounded brother closer. "Hold on, Al, we'll get you a doctor. Everything's going to be okay, just hold on."

Alfred shuddered, groping the air. Matthew took the grasping hand and tried to ignore the blood that poured over his other arm. He shouted again for his allies, but no one appeared. Alfred clutched his brother's hand, drew in a sharp gasp and forced his eyes half-open. "Wanted… he wanted to go back to the farm."

Matthew, startled, leaned closer to hear. "What?"

"The General…Father…he wanted to go back to his farm." Alfred sobbed and a pair of tears streaked down his cheeks. "That's all he wanted. When the war was over, he wanted to go back to his farm in Virginia. He always said he'd do that, once we were free…"

He wheezed, turned his head and gave Matthew a small smile. "Are we free now Mattie?"

Matthew sniffled. With his free hand, he wiped the tears from his brother's face before they could freeze. "Yeah, Al. We're free."

Alfred's smile widened. His eyes glinted like the summer sky. "Thanks, Mattie," he said. "You're the best."

Then his head fell back and his hand slipped from Matthew's grip. His body existed for a few more precious seconds before it too was claimed by the ravages of time and the nation known as America ceased to be. Matthew was left holding the tattered, bloodstained blue coat – the last remnants of his brother's existence.

Arthur's gun tumbled to the ground and was hidden by the falling snow. His face stretched wide in horror as he gazed upon his handiwork. "No…No, it can't be. Alfred?"

Matthew closed his eyes and silent clutched the jacket to his chest.

"No, Alfred…I didn't mean to…" Arthur moaned in horror, raked his fingertips down his face and began to tremble. "Oh god. What have I done? What have I _done?_ Alfred!"

He fell to his hands and knees, moaning and sobbing. Beyond their ridge, on the battlefield, the Colombian victors were singing as the British leaders filed out of their tents with their hands above their heads in surrender.

Mathew wiped his eyes. He folded the tatted coat and held it against his chest. Slowly, he ascended the ridge to join his people.

"Wait," Arthur called. "Please wait. Matthew. Canada."

"Don't call me that."

Matthew's tone was as cold as the glare he sent over his shoulder, as frigid as the northern sky. "That's not my name," he hissed. "Not anymore."

He turned his back and returned to his army, leaving the broken empire to his sorrow and the snow.

_**To be concluded…**_


	4. Epilogue: After

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Hetalia, and I'm pretty sure it's impossible to own any history but your own personal records. I'm just having fun. Sort've.

**Every Generation**

**Epilogue: After**

Spring, 1995

"This is a lovely home, Colombia-san."

"Kiku," the United States of New Colombia sighed, blowing up the stray curled hair that inevitably fell into his face. "I've told you, call me Matthew or Matt. We've been allies almost half a century and that's not going to end any time soon. It ought to make us friends."

"Yes, of course," Japan sputtered, clearing his throat. "My apologies, Matthew-san."

"That's better." Matthew laughed softly and stepped from the kitchen with a glass in each hand. Kumajiro, his old friend, lumbered with lazy ease in his footsteps. "C'mon. Have some iced tea and I'll give you the tour."

Kiku accepted the cool drink with a polite bow and fell into step behind his host. He had visited a number of Colombia's homes before, but this one was new, though only in the sense that he had never seen it before. Kiku was no expert in American architecture, but even he could tell that parts of his house were several centuries old.

In the living room they paused so Matthew could open the large windows on the far side and Kiku could admire the expansive scenery of the hamlet's edge. "This area is beautiful."

"Yeah, Virginia's a pretty nice place," Matthew agreed, smiling as Kumajiro curled into the natural light that flooded the room. "I like to come down here in the spring, after the plants bloom but before it gets too hot. It's a great place to relax."

"It certainly seems so."

The tour continued down the hall into the old part of the house, opening windows and airing out rooms as they went. When he stepped into the sitting room, Kiku stopped and gasped. "Oh!"

Matthew followed his eye to a portrait on the far wall. It was old, even older than it looked – it'd been restored twice already, and its frame was lightly scorched. A regal-looking gentleman with prominent eyebrows sat in a straight-backed chair, holding a teacup and resting a sheathed sword across his lap. He was flanked on either side by near-identical golden-haired boys, one carrying an apparently stuffed polar bear and the other proudly surrounded by a set of wooden soldiers. They were all smiling.

"Is that England-san?"

Matthew's eyes darkened and Kiku wished that he hadn't asked. The personal relationship between Colombia and the United Kingdom was notoriously bad, even among nations, though almost no one knew the exact details of their grudge. "Yeah, it is."

Kiku did not ask when the portrait was made, but curiosity got the better of him. "Who is that other boy, there with you?"

"My brother Alfred."

Kiku looked surprised. "I never knew you had a brother."

"I don't anymore. He died a long time ago."

"I see." Kiku covered his mouth with his hand and bowed his head. "My apologies, Matthew-san. I didn't mean to unearth such painful memories."

"It's okay, really," Matthew said, settling into an armchair and motioning for Kiku to do the same. "If I didn't want to think about him, I wouldn't keep that picture around, and I wouldn't come down here. This used to be his home, you know. Where the town is now, there used to be a farm. He maintained it all by himself for years."

Kiku smiled. "It sounds like he was quite reliable. Much like you."

Matthew laughed. "That's where you're wrong. We were nothing alike. Besides…"

He trailed off. They remained in silence for almost ten minutes before Kiku cleared his throat. "Matthew-san?"

Matthew shook himself and finished off his drink. He hopped up. "Sorry, I must have zoned out. Why don't we go over the notes for tomorrow's meeting? I left them in the kitchen."

"Of course." Kiku stood with grace, but made no move to hide a mischievous little grin that crawled across his features. "And afterwards, perhaps we can play video games for a few hours. I brought a new one to show you."

"Sounds great! I'll meet you down there."

Kiku bowed and stepped out of the room. Matthew watched him go, hovering ever closer to the portrait until he was sure the other nation was gone. He let his eyes drift to the shelf beneath the picture, where an ancient stuffed rabbit, a few cracked toy soldiers and a jar containing the remnants of a ruined blue coat sat as though in a museum.

"Kiku's a nice guy, Al," he began. "I know you'd like him. Wait until you hear what he's cooked up this time…"

The history books all say that the United States of America died before it could be properly conceived, but Matthew knows better. He wonders, sometimes, the kind of nation that Alfred would have grown to be, but then remembers that he knows that, too: he finds it every day, in the spirit of his southern lands, in their culture and their people, in fireworks and robotic toys, in bitter coffee and greasy food. The parts that are a part of him, but at the same time are not – the ghostly remains of a lingering twin.

No one else, not even other nations, can know what these little things mean. But Matthews knows, and Colombia is free.

And in the end, that's all that really matters.

**Fin.**


End file.
